Intellectual copyright of myself, Jared G. Juckiewicz. Warnings of Violence and the odd sexual theme. And Bad Language. We are talking Ulfsbluut here after all.
India. Don’t ask me the year, I don’t remember it. I’d been given a command by Arthur Wellesley, who would one day become the Iron Duke of Wellington. A contingent of native cavalry, Marathi hillmen on shaggy little ponies, sturdy, mountainbred beasts, man and horse. Our meeting had been amusing, them and I. I slipped past their sentries, though ‘twas difficult doing. They were alert, watched like hawks. Listened carefully, stayed hidden, bone-still and silent, even in the midst of the army encampment. I had slipped into the tent used by their commander, their Subadar, as a command post. I had not been announced, my presence was unexpected, for whilst they had been informed that a British Officer would be arriving soon, they had not been told who. Or even, when.
So my arrival was greeted by a swing from a cavalry saber. I parried it with my palm, and laughed. “Easy Subadar. I am Lieutenant Coll. I’m told you would be expecting me.” He stepped back, lowering his blade slightly. “I was told to expect a British officer, Sahib. You have orders, Sahib?” he asked, and I grinned. “I do indeed.” I handed him the sheaf of papers, and was surprised to see he was able to read them himself. Whilst he glanced over them, I spoke. “Your sentries are good. Not as good as I am, but they come damn close. “ He nodded, even as I went on. “You have an emblem?” I asked, and he paused in the reading, looking up at me to say simply “The Wolf, Sahib.” I laughed again, a hearty sound. “A good omen that. The Wolf is my emblem as well!”
Truth be told, ‘twas a bit more than that. I bore the blood of the Wolf in my veins. I settled in, got introduced to the men, and we set off on a long-range patrol the very next dawn. ‘Twas a style of fighting I was used to, that off the light cavalry. I’d trained in Cavalry operations often in the past. Riding against the Finns, and then again with them as a Hakkapell. I knew what to do, and how to do it. Something that made me a far better commander for the Marathi horsemen than any previous British officers had been. They all thought of all cavalry as one style of troops, and wielded even light horse like the heavy cavalry of northern Europe.
Under me Coll’s Wolves ranged the countryside, harrying rebel troops, raiding what little they had in the way of supply lines. We harried them when they held their ground, pursued them when they fled, cut them down when we caught up to them. Despite orders to the contrary, we lived off the land, returning to Wellesley’s camp but rarely. When we did, we spent much of our time in the recently taken city of Seringapatam. We stuck together, for I had swiftly become favoured by those I commanded. I had taken the time to learn their language, and we ate together, drank together, camped under the same conditions. I even rode the same sort of horse as they did, after our first battle against rebel cavalry.
Then, one day, we were wandering through Seringapatam, the whole troop, a score strong. We were seeking out a certain house, of ill repute but flawless reputation. We had recently come into some prized loot, see, and I had intended to treat my warriors to what could be described as ‘A Good Time’. As such, I was less than pleased when I felt a hand on my belt, at my money pouch. The reflexes of the wolfborn had my hand clamped round a wrist so skinny as to be almost naught bar bone. I dragged the culprit round to where I could see him, and almost had to laugh. ‘Twas a boy of perhaps twelve, but so ill-fed he looked but ten. There was hardly a bone in his body I could not see.
Now, of course, Marathi are not known for the being of sympathetic or compassionate. At least not with those not their own. So it came as no surprise when my warriors started suggesting such things as taking his hand or his head, or simply throwing him to the dogs. I decided to do things differently, especially when he pleaded to me to let him go. Something about him needing to tend to his sister, to maintain her honour and virtue. Well, I could tolerate that reasoning. “Your name lad.” I growled at him, and he whimpered back “Rao” “Well, Rao.” I said, my voice softening. “Supposing I were to offer you work. Fetching and carrying. And your sister work.” I raised my free handing, stilling his protests even before he voiced it. “As cook. And cleaner. And Laundry Girl. No More.” He nodded, and I bade him take us to her. She was in somewhat better condition than he was, as they had apparently figured their best chance was to have her looking pretty enough for someone to take her as a bride. It hadn’t been working. Well, we set to negotiating. And in the end came to a sum that my warriors thought to be far too high, and I thought to be barely acceptable.
We fed them up, and kept them safe. They stayed at the camp whilst we patrolled, under the protection of various officers who either owed me, or were scared shitless of me. They seemed to enjoy their work, Khladivya and Rao, and certainly enjoyed the security. The one attempt to treat Khladivya’s virtue as negotiable ended in the individuals involved being out of action for weeks, beaten to a pulp by me and my men. Until things came to a head. I know not how long she had been considering it, or why.
But one night, whilst we were in camp, I was unable to sleep. I lay there, in my bedroll in my tent, my mind simple drifting. I was aware of my surroundings, but only lightly, at the edge of my consciousness. So it was that when someone entered my tent, my subconscious decided they were no threat, and left me drifting. It wasn’t until I felt a soft, warm, naked body slide in next to me that I recalled to myself. I sniffed to work out who it was, and as soon as I realised, I moved back, opening some space between us. “You don’t need to do this,” I told her in her own tongue, and she shook her head.
“I want to.” She told me softly, reaching for me, and I nodded, enfolding her in my arms. “Thank you” I whispered to her. We remained bedmates, and happy ones, until shortly before Assaye. She and Rao simply left one day with nary a word. We tried to seek them out, but were recalled to the army before we had a chance to find them, to find out why they left. And after the battle, well, we had been assigned to the same flank as the 74th Highlanders. After, I was the only of us left, and I was folded into a line regiment, that selfsame 74th. It wasn’t long before I was ordered out of India, after that.
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